


Wish you were here

by ArtanisNaanie



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Come Marking, First Time, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Penetrative Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sex Toys, at least not with a dick, getting caught, implied - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26579083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtanisNaanie/pseuds/ArtanisNaanie
Summary: Jaskier just wanted to masturbate alone in peace.Geralt just wanted Jaskier to not have sex with random people.They kinda get what they want.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 26
Kudos: 370





	Wish you were here

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, 5k of porn, who would have thought. 
> 
> Thanks so much Naomi and Liz for the help and the corrections, and to [Lehanan's art](https://twitter.com/Lehanan_Aida) for the reference that helped me when I was stuck. Her art is absolutely amazing and you should check it out.

If asked, Geralt would have blamed it on the loud bellows from the tavern, the stink of piss from the bucket at the end of the hallway, or the weariness of the hunt. All of it is bullshit. 

The truth is that, after almost a decade of travelling with the bard, he’s highly attuned to Jaskier's scent and sounds and can recognize them in the middle of a Belleteyn celebration, never mind in a shithole tavern-inn in the middle of nowhere. He is, therefore, very aware of what he’s going to walk in to, or at least he thinks he is.

It’s not the first time he has walked in on Jaskier having sex, far from it. The bard has as intense a sex life as their meandering lives could afford, and coupled with the fact that they started to get one room to cut the expenses about two weeks into their acquaintance, Geralt has had more than an eyeful over the years: Jaskier with his face between some maiden’s thighs, Jaskier with his cock down a stableboy throat, you name it, Geralt’s seen it all. At one point Geralt has also stopped to hurry back out from the room as soon as possible, a dark curl of satisfaction unfurling in his belly when Jaskier’s partner leaves hurriedly and unsatisfied, and Jaskier berating him for hours afterwards about “knocking, Geralt, ever heard of this foreign custom?” can’t put a dent in his smug satisfaction. The bard needs to time his encounters better, that’s all. Geralt can’t be expected to renounce the comfort and privacy of his own room just because Jaskier has a case of blue balls; Geralt has lived with blue balls since they met and he’s not dead yet, whatever Jaskier says. 

When he enters the tavern after his stupid as fuck fight that didn't even make him break a sweat he is, of course, assaulted with the noises and the smells of the patrons, but the spicy scent of Jaskier’s arousal quickly puts all the other sensations in the back of his head. He can’t fault Jaskier this time, he really came back way earlier than what was expected, and he pauses just a second to question whether he wants to be the shit who interrupts him once again or if he should just drink something and wait a bit longer. His musing lasts less than ten seconds, enough to picture Jaskier being with someone, _anyone_ \- but him - and then he’s going up the stairs to their room.

He’s quiet about it, his feet silent on the creaking wood boards, his movements controlled to avoid sword clanging and leather rubbing. He approaches the door with a level of stealth he would normally utilise for a wild monster with keen senses and stops behind it for a moment. Ragged breaths are coming from the other side, low whimpers that probably nobody could hear but him. Jaskier is being discreet, which is not his usual behaviour but makes Geralt think the bard might have learned something recently. Good. Not good enough, though. 

The handle turns quietly enough and the hinges are well oiled: the door opens smoothly and without a sound, revealing a picture Geralt was not expecting but welcomes wholeheartedly. 

Jaskier is alone, for starters, which settles something ugly and green in the Witcher’s chest. Geralt closes the door quietly behind him, shuffles his feet until they’re wide enough for him to be comfortable, and then just _watches_.

Jaskier is kneeling on the bed, left hand braced on the wall, head hung low, knees wide, naked. From where he stands Geralt can follow the curves of his back, the roundness of his ass, the slim shape of his feet, one with toes braced against the covers and the other flexing and relaxing in time with what his hand is doing. And, from where he stands, Geralt can see the ivory phallus the bard is pushing inside himself, slowly, ever so slowly, and retreating with the same rhythm. 

The lights are low, just two candles lit on the bedside tables, but light has never been a hindrance for Geralt’s sight and it’s not going to start now. He can see, as if in daylight, the way Jaskier’s rim stretches around the white toy, red and glistening, his thighs tremble with the effort of keeping himself upright enough to have space to move his hand, the flexing of his shoulder muscles. 

The scent of sex and arousal is intoxicating in the closed, little room, barely tempered by the faint smell of chamomile that Geralt knows so well; Jaskier is fucking himself with Geralt’s massage oil and Geralt is loving it, as his dick plumping up in his pants can attest.

The sounds Jaskier is letting out are small, stilted, unwanted as if they were punching themselves out of him against his will, despite bitten lips and deep breaths, and Geralt wants him to stop stifling them, wants to hear the bard sing while he pleasures himself like this, wants to know what he’s thinking about, wants to know if he’s thinking about _him_ the way Geralt thinks about Jaskier when he wanks mercilessly every time he goes to “hunt for dinner” or every time he fucks a whore and closes his eyes. He’s not proud of his desires, no, but he’s not unaware of them, he can’t be after ten years. Jaskier never pushed their relationship farther than some meaningless flirting, though, and has always looked for his pleasure elsewhere, so Geralt has never tried to close the distance either. Instead, he takes an evil pleasure in interrupting the bard whenever he catches him, and glaring from behind him at the person he’s flirting with, and booking one single bedroom every time he can get away with it. And now he’s unabashedly crossing the line, as his fingers close around his still trapped cock while he watches his friend fucking himself on their bed. 

\---

Jaskier is going out of his mind. Lately, all his efforts of getting laid have been interrupted by Geralt arriving at the very worst moment and _not leaving_. It's absolutely not fair, since banging every time he can is the only way Jaskier has found to not jump the Witcher bones every fucking day in the last ten years. He can shoulder the pining, the rejection, the harsh words, and the one-sided conversations, but he needs to fuck because if he doesn’t he just will end up humping Geralt’s leg in his sleep, or fall on his knees and beg the man for his dick. Since he has a little bit of dignity, whatever Geralt says, he prefers not to.

This hunt is a fucking miracle: sounds like an easy one, comes with a night at an inn, is not interesting enough to follow the Witcher. He bids Geralt goodbye gleefully when he leaves and sets his plan for the few hours he has in front of him. A quick tour downstairs in the tavern informs him that there’s no one he’s going to want in his bed tonight -not that there usually _is_ , these days, because Jaskier very much knows who he wants in his bed and it’s neither the cute red-headed maiden or the tall, dark and handsome farmer, but he usually makes do- and he has neither the time nor the will to put any effort in it, so he goes back upstairs after one very self-indulgent, albeit quite acidic, glass of wine taken alone at the counter. 

He closes the blinds, lights up the bedside candles, and takes out from the bottom of his bag his second most prized possession. Well, third, because the doublet and pants he got the last time he was in Novigrad were fucking expensive and fit him like a glove. Anyway. 

It’s made of ivory, white and smooth and cold, and it has just the right proportions to not be an unfair challenge and yet be utterly satisfying. It’s not a _cock_ , of course not, it’s not hot and it doesn’t pulse and it doesn’t give the way a cock would, but it’s really the next best thing and Jaskier has been hiding it in his bag for going on five years now, even if he doesn’t use it all that much, time and all that. In the same satchel where he keeps it, there’s also a little bottle of chamomile oil, the same kind he uses for Geralt’s massages, and he retrieves that too. 

What’s nice about being alone is that there’s no ceremony. He doesn’t need to make a show of undressing for his audience of himself, nor does he feel self-conscious about the little bump under his navel he’s sure wasn’t there a few years ago. He settles on his back in the middle of the bed, a bath sheet over the covers - he’s pretty sure Geralt will know anyway, but at least he will not sleep in a puddle of his own making - and for a moment he just lets his imagination go.

Usually, when he does this, he tries at least at first to think about ample breasts and supple bottoms, wide thighs and smooth skin, or about smooth chests and narrow hips, or… He doesn’t have the patience for that, tonight, because he’s going out of his mind with lust and unrequited fucking love and, so, he jumps straight to the main event, which are always, without fail since he was eighteen in Posada, fantasies about Geralt. 

Geralt pinning him against a tree.

Geralt kissing him, all teeth and tongue and aggression.

Geralt keeping him from moving with a big hand on his wrists.

Geralt biting him, manhandling him.

Geralt’s dick, which he is very well acquainted with for the wrong reasons, standing tall and proud and right in front of his face.

Geralt telling him he loves him.

No, not that, back to the biting and kissing and fucking.

Jaskier is not surprised to feel his cock filling in a very short time; he’s been chubby all day for going on two weeks now, so it’s almost a miracle when he starts touching himself and doesn’t come right at that moment. He’ll take the miracle. He has other plans.

He leaves his dick alone for the moment and oils his fingers quickly, not wasting any time on preparation. He kind of does not want to prepare himself, wants it to hurt, a bit, but he also knows he'll have to walk tomorrow and doesn't want to explain to Geralt why it hurts, so, preparation it is. 

He keeps this part carefully fantasy free because he knows he always comes up with sappy shit when he does that and those are the most dangerous, the ones where he thinks about Geralt kissing him, and taking his time, and touching him all over, and telling him he’s doing good and yeah, no. So he just shoves one, then two fingers up his ass, mind carefully blank, scissors them a little until he feels himself give just enough, and sighs when he’s done. He turns then, kneeling on the bed with his face to the wall, slathers some oil on the wand, and then, only then, when he starts to push inside slowly, he allows his mind to wander yet again. 

It doesn’t take long for the usual feeling of weirdness and slight burn to fade, his rim adapting to the situation quite quickly as it always does, and his cock takes a renewed interest in the proceedings, but Jaskier keeps his movements slow and teasing: he has time, for once, and nobody else on whom to focus, and he wants to enjoy this. He braces himself against the wall and lets his imagination run wild.

\---

Jaskier must be lost in his pleasure, or maybe the tavern’s sounds are loud enough even if Geralt has blocked them out, because he doesn’t seem to hear the first low growl that leaves the Witcher’s throat as he squeezes his cock in the confine of his leather pants. He thinks he stifles it quickly, but he can feel it reverberate in the room loud like a thunder. He doesn’t want to be caught. He wants to be caught. He wants to go up to that bed and replace that thing with his cock and make Jaskier scream. He can’t do that. He should leave, right now, since Jaskier still has no idea he has an audience, and go to jerk off somewhere else and never talk about that to anyone ever and hope without hope that it can happen again. 

He doesn’t leave. He doesn’t think he can move his feet at this point.

The hand that’s pushing and pulling the phallus in and out of Jaskier picks up the pace, and Jaskier’s sounds pick up the volume. His moans are still muffled somehow, but they go straight to Geralt’s cock anyway. 

Geralt is pondering the opportunity of taking his cock out of his pants, since he apparently has let go of the idea of doing the right thing and might as well roll with his debauchery, when Jaskier moves his hand a bit backwards, angling the white wand slightly towards the inside, and on the next thrust:

“Mmm, Geralt!”

Oh, it’s choked, and faint, and probably barely recognizable by any human ear, but Geralt is not human, is he? And he hears it clear as day and loud as a shout.

Fuck.

 _Fuck._

Geralt never goes in a hunt without a plan, but he prides himself in being a good on-the-spot tactician too when he needs to be. He has never needed to be one more than tonight. 

He walks across the room in two strides, silent as the assassin he could be. Jaskier is still working himself, but now his head is curved backwards, the long line of his neck glinting in the low light while Geralt approaches him from the side of the bed. He takes care not to put his body in front of the light, nor to touch the mattress, but he leans towards the bard and whispers, as close to his ear as he can:

“Yes?”

\---

Jaskier is pretty sure he’s having a heart attack. He thinks he’s justified. 

As soon as his brain catches up with the warm breath against his ear and the voice that is whispering to him, his body has several reactions at once: first, he jumps. Jumping he inadvertently pushes the phallus inside, bumping on his prostate with too much force, a bolt of pleasure and pain rippling through his lower belly and his spine. Then he whimpers, which is kind of obvious seeing the situation he’s in. And then, finally, he freezes. 

There’s no way out of this, Jaskier knows. Not that he’s not going to try anyway.

“Geralt!” His voice rings two octaves higher than usual, but usually he doesn’t have a piece of ivory planted in his ass, so.

“Yes?” Geralt answers, again, and Jaskier glares at him somewhat. The fucker looks exactly as he looked when he left, not even two hours ago: his hair is still neatly tied on the back of his head, his face is still clean, and he still had his fucking swords on his back. All the while Jaskier is naked, writhing, he knows his hair must look like a mess, and he’s furiously blushing. Life is unfair.

“What… what are you doing here?” 

“It’s my room, Jaskier. What are _you_ doing here?”

Jaskier hates him a little. Because he’s hovering on the side of the bed, completely put together, handsome like he always is, the low candlelight making his features soft and his eyes glow, and Jaskier just wanted to fuck himself and come and release these weeks of frustrations but apparently he’s not going to, _again_ , and he’s two seconds away from crying. In fact, his dick has decided it’s not interested anymore and the stick in his ass is turning profoundly uncomfortable. Humiliation is, clearly, not his thing.

“What do you think I was doing, Geralt?” he replies, irritation clear in his voice. He dislodges the phallus from where it was, since his evening is ruined anyway, and it comes out with a squelchy sound that makes him blush harder. Geralt, at that, does that little thing with his eyebrow that Jaskier has come to interpret like a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “What?” Jaskier bites again, leaving the fake cock on the bed and scrambling to get a bit away from Geralt and cover his dick with one hand. Geralt, if possible, looks more puzzled. Jaskier, if possible, gets more pissed.

“Are we quite done with this little stupid game you’re playing, Geralt? Can’t a man have three damned hours of privacy, nowadays?”

“You said my name,” the dumb man answers, and Jaskier really hoped he wouldn’t bring that up, but he also really hoped to come tonight and that’s not happening either.

“Great, your hearing is fine as ever despite your old age, Witcher, I’m glad,” he snarks, getting up from the bed and retrieving his smallclothes from the floor. 

“Jaskier.”

“What.” Two can play the game of monotone, _Geralt_.

“Why were you saying my name?”

“Oh, I don’t know, probably because I was thinking about how your hunt was going,” he says, angrily putting his underwear on, “or maybe because I just remembered I needed to tell you something important about Roach, you’re not an idiot, Geralt, guess!”

“You were thinking about me.”

“Ta-da! We have a winner!”

“While you were fucking yourself on that dildo.”

Jaskier can feel the blush coming up his neck and around his ears as Geralt says that. It’s the low tone, and the emphasis on fucking, and the reminder that he’s been caught, and the fact that he really, really was thinking about getting railed by the very same Witcher who’s now having a conversation about his masturbation habits with him right now.

“Observant as ever, Ger…”

“Why’d you stop?”

Jaskier finds himself suddenly chest to leather armour with a very tall, very big, very smirking Witcher who moves so very fast he didn’t see him moving at all. 

“Why.. what do you mean, why did I stop?!?”

“I was enjoying the show.”

Geralt’s voice is… sultry, is what it is, and his mouth is right there, two centimeters from Jaskier’s own. Jaskier licks his unexpectedly dry ones.

“Uh,” says Jaskier, the bard, the wordsmith, the poet.

Geralt smirks at his eloquence, and Jaskier would start a tirade on how one can’t be held accountable in this kind of situation, but his blood is pumping south again and his mind is blank. He looks at Geralt’s lips, slightly pulled on one side, teeth showing, and he wonders if he has actually the courage to reach them with his own. 

“Get on the bed, Jaskier.”

The depth of his voice, _Melitele’s tits_.

\---

Geralt’s eyes follow Jaskier as he settles on the bed again, on his back this time, lounging on the pillows, his expression still confused and his body still closed off. There’s a funny crease between his eyebrows, the same he has when he’s trying very hard to concentrate on a song. Geralt hopes he’s not writing a song about this, but he wouldn’t put it past him.

Geralt starts to set aside his scabbard then untie the buckles of his armour, never taking his eyes away from Jaskier. It takes a little time, but soon the bard is starting to squirm under the attention, his cock standing flushed again, snuggled against his hip crease. 

Geralt takes off his boots and then starts to play with the hem of his shirt. Jaskier is fisting the sheet he pulled on the bed, his eyes are wide, and when Geralt slips a hand under his shirt to tease himself a little, Jaskier seems to mirror his movement and sighs as soon as he touches himself. 

Geralt smirks.

“I thought you were the show, Jask, not me,” he says, and the bard’s face goes from hungry to indignant in less than the time it takes to blink.

“Well, Geralt, can you blame me? You’re all.. all.. _that_ , what should I do, _not look_? I’ve spent ten years trying not to look, I’m done,” he pouts. 

Geralt takes his hand away from under his shirt and raises his chin slightly in Jaskier’s direction, schooling his face to not give up the sheer relief he feels when Jaskier says ten years. Fuck, what a waste of time.

“I’ll give you your show when you give me mine,” he rumbles, and the blush that keeps coming and going from Jaskier’s cheeks is very rewarding. Jaskier huffs, though it’s probably mostly for show, and his hands start to roam his hairy torso slowly. Geralt raises an eyebrow, and Jaskier lets his hand slide down, down through the fine line of hair on his belly, down to his cock. When the bard grasps it he lets out a little, almost inaudible whimper, and Geralt takes his shirt off. 

Jaskier watches him with hunger. He knows the look, has seen it countless times on his face, but he has never felt it so thoroughly oriented at him. As he starts to unbutton his pants he observes as the bard’s other hand descends to tease his balls, squeezing them a little. He files away the information for later. 

“Turn around, Jaskier,” is met with another pout from the bard, who hesitates for a moment. Geralt stays still, hands on his pants’ button. Jaskier sighs again and turns around as requested, kneeling on the bed once again. Geralt looks at his back, how it moves as he shuffles, how the light plays on his skin to build creases and shadows, highlights and hills. Jaskier’s hands seem to resume their previous work and Geralt, satisfied, continues to undress himself. The sudden lack of pressure on his dick is half relief and half torture, eliciting a groan from him. Jaskier hears this time and turns his head to watch, smiling cheekily. Geralt suppresses a smile at that and finishes removing his pants. 

“Next time I’ll watch all the striptease, just so you know,” Jaskier says, and Geralt didn’t even think about ‘next time’, because for all he cares there could be another conjunction of the spheres tonight and he would welcome Death gladly, but the possibility of _more_ leaves him ecstatic. He grunts in response and kneels on the bed too, a little behind Jaskier. He pushes his shoulders down and Jaskier goes willingly on all fours, his ass right in front of Geralt, still shiny from his previous activities, stretched by the position and the toy. Geralt shudders. He traces with a finger the line between Jaskier’s cheeks, slowly, and the goosebumps that rise on the bard’s back make him smile. His finger caresses the spread hole once, seeing it fluttering lightly, before pulling back. Jaskier shivers but stays still.

“What were you thinking about?”

“You,” Jaskier answers simply, even if his shoulders seem to get tighter.

“Touch yourself,” Geralt replies, his own hand on his cock, light and teasing, with all the time in the world, “do you want your toy?”

Jaskier lowers his shoulders on the bed, turning his head on the side. Like this, Geralt can see the bright blue eye that watches him, gaze going from his face to his dick and back again. 

“What, are you not going to fuck me, Witcher?”

He says Witcher as if it’s a pet name. As if it’s an inside joke. As if Geralt couldn’t impale him on his cock right now without resistance, or kill him before he could even realise it. It makes something warm coil in Geralt’s chest.

“No,” he responds nonetheless, feeling a little smirk pulling at his lips - next time, he thinks, there’ll be a lot of next times -. The side of Jaskier’s mouth that he can see seems to mirror it, and the bard doesn’t complain. Instead, he glides his right hand along his side, around his ass, and goes to tease his hole with the point of two fingers. Geralt squeezes his cock.

“I was thinking it was you, behind me, going slow and making me feel it,” Jaskier resumes, dipping the tips of both fingers in his breach, then withdrawing them. Geralt eyes the little bottle of oil near his knee and uncorks it to pour some on Jaskier’s fingers and ass. 

“Why slow?” Geralt asks, pouring some oil on his hand too. The smooth sensation on his dick is heavenly, and he groans. Jaskier’s breath hitches. 

“Was in the mood for slow, I suppose. What about you?”

“Mmm… I’m in the mood to see you fuck yourself with your toy until you come all over yourself.” Jaskier moans, his fingers dipping deeper, widening to stretch the rim a bit more. “Would you like that?”

“Or...” Jaskier breathes, “or you could fuck me with it.”

Getting a grip on his arousal is something of a feat for Geralt, but he manages - the sudden tight grip at the base of his cock helping - despite the mental image Jaskier’s words provoke. He retrieves the ivory phallus on the bed and quickly lathers it with more oil. As Jaskier starts to retract his fingers Geralt stops him with a firm grip on his wrist, then starts to tease the toy between his buried fingers. Jaskier turns his face in the covers and the moan he lets out is stifled, but still loud enough. 

“Do you have the faintest idea for how long I wanted to have you like this, bard?” he growls, the slightly pointed end of the dildo breaching between the fingers, stretching the rim more, red and glistening. He lets go of Jaskier’s wrist and immediately the bard retrieves his fingers, the toy going in smoothly. Geralt watches it being swallowed with almost no pressure and starts a slow rhythm with both his hands, the one on his dick and the one on the toy. “Spread out on a bed, or on a bedroll, or the dirt, naked, dressed, clean or dirty, quick or slow, it doesn’t matter.”

\---

Jaskier moans again, he doesn’t think he stopped, he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop. The slow drag of the toy in his ass is nice, but Geralt’s voice, the knowledge he’s right there, his cock in hand, looking at him, eating him up, is what makes him hot all over. He doesn’t dare to touch his cock, not yet, lest he comes immediately, and maybe all of this is just a nice dream and will shatter as soon as he comes and he doesn’t want that. He can make it last. He wants to make it last. 

“I always think of you when I jerk off, Jask, did you know that?” Geralt is going to kill him, but what a way to go. “Sometimes I also think of you when I pay someone at the brothel. The last girl I called Jask while she was riding my cock even took offense.” And while he talks he fucks Jaskier with the toy, and it’s not enough, not when there’s a perfectly functioning cock not even ten centimeters from his ass, and what a cock, too. Jaskier has seen it time and time again over the years and doesn’t need to see it now to picture it. It’s big, and thick, and dark, and Jaskier has never in his life wanted something more. 

“Give me your cock, you ass,” he mumbles, half his mouth dragging on the covers where he’s drooling. 

“No.”

Jaskier whimpers. 

“Why.”

“Because for ten years I had to see you fucking and getting fucked by everyone except me,” Geralt growls, and the sound of it goes straight to his cock, “so now I want to see you getting fucked but without annoying third parties who were lucky enough to leave with all their body parts.”

The possessiveness in the Witcher’s tone is too much, and Jaskier grabs his cock between his legs, tugging on it far too quickly compared to the rhythm Geralt is still keeping on the stick ramming his ass. He doesn’t care. 

“Hmm, you’re close… I’m going to come all over your ass and your toy, Jask,” Geralt says, his breathing just slightly affected, while Jaskier is moaning like a two coin whore getting the fuck of their life and is struggling to fill his lungs. The movement of the dildo stops, hot fingers probing around it, and Jaskier feels his pleasure coiling at the base of his dick. He lets go with a shout, his come splattering on the sheet underneath him, and over the ringing in his ears he can hear the squishy sounds of Geralt’s hand flying on his cock and the groan that accompanies the splatter of hot liquid on his crack, trickling down to his balls. The feeling makes him moan again, his ass clenching around the unforgiving width of the toy with the aftershocks. 

He can vaguely feel Geralt spreading his come all over his ass, and it makes him smile. As soon as the Witcher does him the courtesy of pulling out the phallus from where it’s nestled, he collapses on the bed, and Geralt lowers himself on him. It’s the first time of the evening their skin has touched and, for Jaskier, it’s almost as satisfying as the sex they just had. He sighs. 

\---

Geralt settles half on top of Jaskier, slightly on his side. The bard smells like sex and sweat and spice. The bard smells like _him_. Geralt noses along Jaskier’s nape, kissing and licking the beads of sweat that rolls on his skin, his hand petting everything it can reach. He listens to Jaskier’s heartbeat while it calms down, to his breathing as it deepens and slows. 

Jaskier clears his throat.

“Did I just have a very nice, very realistic wet dream? Not that that’s ever happened, but…”

Geralt snorts, face buried in the curve of his neck. 

“No, you didn’t.”

“Hmm, good, yes, good, would have been a shame, really, seeing as I would have been very, very disappointed to wake up from it, and at least it makes the crick in my neck worth something.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replies, amused by the babbling and not trying to hide it. He settles more on his side, pulling Jaskier along and spooning him from behind. The bard’s ass is sticky, but he smells amazing, and he tries to glue him to himself from head to toe, legs lacing, arms embracing. It’s hot tonight, they don’t need the covers, he reasons. 

“Geralt? Geralt, are you going to sleep? Aren’t you going to, you know, clean this mess?”

“No. Sleep, Jask.”

“I… I will not, Geralt! I can’t sleep like this, filthy and sticky and in a puddle of my come, for fuck’s sake!”

Geralt sighs and quickly manhandles them both under the covers, the bath sheet that covered the bed abandoned on the side. He doesn’t clean Jaskier. 

“You smell like me. I’m going to keep you like this all the time,” he whispers in Jaskier’s ear and can see the answering little, smug smile on his lips. 

“All the time?”

“All the time.”

“Mmm, I think I can get used to it. But I want a bath tomorrow before we leave.”

“We’ll see. Sleep, Jask.”

“Good night, Witcher,” Jaskier answers, laughter in his voice He turns his head and pecks Geralt on the lips, a little kiss; and it’s their first kiss and it’s so different than what Geralt expected, than what he has imagined, and that only makes it more real. There will be time for better kisses from tomorrow on. Geralt traces with his finger on Jaskier’s belly what he’s not saying, yet, and they fall asleep soon after the U is written. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! Comments and kudos are always appreciated and feed your author!
> 
> Check out my other Witcher fics:
> 
> \- [A piper at the gates of dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23411083/chapters/56107210); canon universe, ep 6 fix-it, rated E, <9k. Geralt finds Jaskier one year and a half after the mountain.  
> \- the [Muse 'verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752481): Modern setting, from hook-up to lovers, rated E, Geralt wears kilts, angst with a happy ending. <20k  
> \- [Calligraphy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25365418): 5k ficwip challenge, College/University, rated E, inspired by art, fluff, 5k  
> \- [In the kitchen of a keep in the mountains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25910944/chapters/62970847): canon universe, found family, food as a love language, internal monologues, character study, rated T, 12k  
> \- [ There was only one bed and it was uncomfortable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26283094): 5+1 Crack, rated E, 4k  
> \- [Of food, friendship and apologies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27954674); canon universe, ep 6 fix-it, rated G, 2k, not or pre slash. Food is a love language.  
> \- [As we lie here in our bed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28527864): canon universe, porn without plot, somnophilia prompt for the Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo, rated E, 1k  
> \- [Black in front of my eyes, bark against my back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28616832): canon universe, porn without plot, outdoor, clothed sex, rated E, <1k  
> \- [Things that bump in the night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617060): pre canon universe, porn without plot, Eskel/Geralt, Kaer Morhen, rated E, <1k  
> \- [I quite like seeing you all tied up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617300): canon universe, porn without plot, Geraskier, soft bondage, rated E, <1k  
>   
> And you can come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ArtanisNaanie) too!


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